


Ah, The Old Bully Magnet Switcharoo

by PaxCallow



Category: Paranatural (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Food Fight, M/M, Switcharoo AU, Water Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 00:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxCallow/pseuds/PaxCallow
Summary: Johnny is an agent of goodness and justice. And sometimes justice means starting a food fight with the brooding bully kid and then having to stay after school with him to clean up after it. Or something like that. Man, he likes Max.





	Ah, The Old Bully Magnet Switcharoo

**Author's Note:**

> yet another of the fics that i wrote at the beginning of this year! it's the old bullymagnet switcharoo. 
> 
> this one's actually lower key """romantic""" than most of the other bulmag fics i've written! johnny's just got a dumb ol' crush.

                “Yer a jerk,” Johnny grumbles. “Yer the worst.”

                “You’re right about both of those things,” Max responds, smiling serenely into space.

                “Like, I’m a good guy? A _‘pruhtagonist’_ or whatever?” Johnny goes on, shrugging, straightening up from the cafeteria table he’s leant over. “And I _still_ hang out with you, Mux.”

                “Yeah! And I’m the antagonist, and don’t call me Mux, and you missed a spot.” When Johnny looks around, Max points it out to him. “The spot that’s red like your stupid dyed head.”

                Johnny glares at him.

                It’s just the two of them in the otherwise empty cafeteria. Armed with buckets, sponges and mops, and surrounded by a pretty substantial radius of crushed foodstuffs, spilled drinks, and many other casualties of what must have been a bona fide food fight.

                “All I’m sayin’ is that you could dial back the chaos gauge, ya friggin’ edgelord,” Johnny scolds the self-described Neutral Evil boy, putting a hand on his hip. Is he even listening? “Considerin’ you’re _friends_ with this good guy.”

                “And we’re not friends.”

                Well. He’s listening. Automatically, Johnny smiles softly to himself. Yeah… he always says that. Every time, actually. Johnny knows it’s not true, though.

                At least he thinks he knows.

                Anyway, for all of Johnny’s nagging, it _is_ Max’s fault they’re here. He’d been the one to start the food fight.

                And don’t get him wrong, Johnny was the one to continue it. Basically what had happened was, Max launched several Apple Thangs at Stephen this afternoon for “mouthing off to” his leader, Isabel, earlier in the day. And however cute Max is, _nobody_ messes with the Activity Gang. Johnny wasn’t going to stand for that. So he stood for that and threw his cup of yogurt right back at Max.

                But his aim isn’t so good, so he hit a kid a few seats behind him, and… well. You know. Food fights.

                So the blame was laid squarely on Johnny’s shoulders for the whole fiasco. At least, it was at first. Still scrubbing at some like… dried up tomato sauce, he cranes his neck to peer at Max. He’s dutifully mopping at a sea of chocolate milk on the floor.

                Max turned himself in.

                And that much is all he’d bothered to tell Johnny when he showed up this afternoon and saw him, after being summoned to clear up the calamity the mob had created. Johnny hadn’t pressed harder than that at the time. And so, here they are.

                Johnny sighs. Max is fun to be around, really. When he’s being tolerable. But when crap goes wrong, he always gets… callous, and quiet. And low-energy. It stinks. … He means, it makes him feel low-energy too. He can’t really tell if today is one of those moods, but he thinks it might be.

                He’s staying after school cleaning up as punishment. That’s like, the opposite of what he stands for.

                But he’s the one who fessed up, anyway.

                After what feels like a forever of silence beating down on poor Johnny’s ears, he hears a noise that registers immediately as _Mux’s Voice_ , and he didn’t have to be the one to draw it out. _Oh thank god._

                “Here’s that cake someone threw.” Johnny looks over to see Max shaking his head down at what was once a perfectly crafted pink cake, now splattered dead on the floor. “An entire cake.”

                Johnny laughs a bit, sort of relieved. “Oh yeah. I was pretty disappointed ‘bout that cake.”

                “It looks like it would have been a good cake!” Max affirms, gesturing regretfully at the mess.

                This prompts Johnny to look around for another story to tell from the battlefield. Over there was where a couple hipsters got creative with the condiments, and _there_ was where Johnny got beaned in the head so hard by an apple that it split in half. The apple, not his head.

                Johnny snaps his fingers for Max’s attention and smirks, pointing accusingly at the apple. “ _That_ hurt.”

                Max shrugs in a sarcastic “whoops!” and Johnny goes on, amused at his lack of remorse. “Stuff dudn’t usually hurt my head, you know, it’s a _rock._ Why were you beaning people so hard?”

                “Hey listen, bonehead, it’s a special Friday today,” he says, and grins. And it makes Johnny so stupidly happy when he grins. It’s a rarity. “I knew roughly four throws in that I’d miss out on a free movie and several decent block parties for this stupid cleanup. I had to make my hits count.”

                Johnny lets out a bark of laughter, but then pauses.

                He had wanted to know… but now he _really_ wants to know. If Max had plans today, then…

                “Why’d you… tell ‘em that you started it too?” He asks, a little lower than he expected it to come out. It’s like Max’s good mood is the pissed off cat and he is the cautious owner with treats. He doesn’t want to scare it off. “The food fight?”

                “I wanted the credit.”

                “I mean it,” Johnny shoots back flatly, immediately calling his bullcrap.

                “We’re both here. Why do you care?” He shoots back Johnny’s shooting back, a quizzical look on his face.

                “I just _do._ ”

                Max sighs a long sigh and hoists himself up onto a relatively clean spot on the table. Smalltalk is better than actually doing the work, Johnny figures he figures.

                “… Well. Unlike my good friends in the Isabellan Squadron, I can at least recognize that our bullying is a business. It’s a means to an _end._ That end is typically pocket change and power.”

                He picks lint off his pants and drones on and gestures like he’s bored of talking about it already. “But I mean, it’s business. Earlier, Stephen was my target, you got involved, things got wacky…”

                Johnny tilts his head slightly as the bully explains. He always forgets how much composure— that the right word?— Max can hold himself with. He’s got that backwards hat and the purposely half-tucked-half-untucked shirt and all, but he still always talks so smart. Johnny smiles fondly as he speaks. He’d make a fine hero. Emphasis on fine. He’s so pretty.

                “Look, I didn’t want some nerd bystander to have to clean up all this crap alone…!” He shrugs almost _defensively_ , straightening up. It’s almost like he’s telling himself. “Especially not my fr—”

                He chokes on the word when it’s halfway out of his mouth, and it’s just as well, because it really doesn’t look like he meant to say it. He immediately averts his gaze from the confused Johnny’s and dismounts the table, quickly going right back to scrubbing it.

                Johnny’s brain slowly catches up. He grins with caution.

                “… Yer what? Yer friend?”

                Max scrubs harder, hunching over. He tries to scrub through the table.

                The grin explodes across Johnny’s face. It’s stupid, but he can feel the joy swelling in his heart. He knew it. He folds his arms, sort of to be teasing, but mostly to conceal his heartbeat. He knew it. “Were you gonna call me your _friend?_ ”

                “You’re _annoying,_ ” Max bites back. Johnny can almost see the steam rising from his ears. This just makes his heart leap more. “Don’t forget that I will literally wail on you.”

                Johnny is giddy. He doesn’t take Max’s threat lightly, but he can’t help himself. But then, he rarely can. “How’re ya gonna wail on me, Mux? We’re friends! Your heart won’t let you! It’s too busy writin’ our _enemies to boyfriends fanfi—!_ ”

                Johnny is rightfully interrupted by getting _beaned_ square in the face by a saturated sponge that proceeds to splort to the ground.

                When he’s done shaking off the shock, he looks up, expecting that aforementioned wailing-on. Max stands glaring straight at him, his shoulders squared, his hands in fists… and his beet red cheeks puffed out in an attempt to hide an embarrassed smile.

                Water drips from Johnny’s chin and his worry vanishes. Like he gives a crap about the filthy water that is now seeping down the front of his shirt. This was all he wanted. Not to be hit by a wet sponge, but—

                “… You finally called us friends.”

                “ _Hardly._ And god knows you’re never hearing it again,” Max monotones, regret in his dead eyes. His cheeks are still red.

                Johnny snickers, kneeling down. Max raises a brow. “Well, ‘ey! All I hadta do to hear this one was throw crap at you, right?!” He shoots back up, sponge in hand, and wings it at Max as fast as he can. “ _How ‘bout another?!_ ”

                Max yelps and throws an arm up to shield himself, the sponge hitting and splattering gross sponge water everywhere. He whips his arm back down and glares down Johnny, fire crackling in his eyes.

                “You really wanna go down this road with me again, you idiot?!” He bellows intimidatingly, but the amusement is clear in his voice.

                “Sure do, pal!” Johnny declares, darting toward another bucket and another sponge grenade. Max leaps into action, looking to arm himself as well. He rolls up his sleeves and lunges for a filthy rag draped over a bucket, dodging Johnny’s fastball like the water. (NEAR MISS!)

                “Screw off!” He plunges it in and throws it across the room at Johnny, the fan of water spraying out and showering both of them. (COLLATERAL DAMAGE!)

                “Look at how close friends we are, Mux!” Johnny cackles. He slides on his butt across a table to get at a spray bottle just as he’s smacked in the back of the head by what feels like and can only be another sponge. (DIRECT HIT!)

                He shakes it off and fires off the gun I mean spray bottle at Max, who bobs and weaves to avoid the attack. (YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT’S IN THERE!)

                “You don’t know what’s in there!” Max protests loudly, but gives up completely on caring about what weird chemicals and/or just soapy water is being aimed at him when he sees the mop. He smirks, unsheathes it from its bucket, and wields it. He turns on Johnny several aisles down, who has an oversaturated rag in-hand.

                With a direct path and without another word, the two charge at each other. Johnny is screaming a very intense battle cry. Max slips and almost falls like twice. Johnny intends to somehow get this rag down the back of Max’s shirt. Max intends to just literally whack Johnny over the head with his mop. They get within a table of each other, aaaand…

                “ _Hey!_ ”

                Come screeching to a predictable stop inches from one another. They snap their gazes toward the source of the sound.

                It’s Mister Garcia, stood in the doorway of cafeteria, hands planted firmly on either door. Strangely enough, he does not look too happy.

                Oh yeah…

                They were supposed to be being supervised…

                The two boys blink back at him, unmoving. The only sound is the mop in Max’s raised hands, raining down water on his baseball cap. They are now surrounded not _only_ by the mess of a food fight that they haven’t been doing a very good job of cleaning up, but also various puddles of water! Filthy, _filthy_ water! Max drops the mop unceremoniously.

                Garcia huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s bad enough that I gotta be here after hours on a Friday, alright? But you know what’s worse?” When he doesn’t get a response from either of them but a bored stare, and a nervous kicking at dust respectively, he goes on, “Being woken up from my nap by the screaming of children and walking in on _this mess!_ ”

                Johnny folds his arms behind his back and smiles like an angel. “Sorry, sir. Our bads.”

                Max simply shrugs. “Mess isn’t getting any worse.”

                “It’s supposed to be getting _better,_ ” Garcia fires back.

                “We’ll take care of it, Garc-man,” Johnny promises, hoping to diffuse the situation as fast as possible. Garcia simply shakes his head in annoyance and turns to walk back out the doors.

                Max murmurs into his shoulder. “I mean depending on your view, ‘better’ could mean different things here…”

                Garcia gives him the stink eye and Johnny puffs out his cheeks and stares anxiously at the floor, but thankfully, Max doesn’t open his trap again.

                The doors shut behind the tired, tired man and the two are alone.

                And only then do they look at each other again. It’s not comfortable to be sopping wet all over. But it’s even less comfortable to be sopping wet in only _some_ places, which is what they are. Max looks like he ran through a storm for five seconds, Johnny’s hair is dripping, and his socks are inexplicably wet.

                They stare in silence like this for a few seconds before a snort of laughter bursts from Johnny’s mouth. Max isn’t slow to follow suit. They stand there, chuckling like little morons for a while, really appreciating the silliness of it all.

                Johnny tries to shut himself up enough so he can hear Max’s laugh (because if his _smiling_ is a rarity, what do you think this is?!) but as soon as his giggling dies down, Max starts clearing his throat and shutting up too. Dang. Max turns and paces, nonchalantly putting his hands on his hips and assessing the situation. Back to work.

                Oh, well. At least he’s still smiling.

                At least they’re still friends.

                “Give me that sponge,” Max says. “The one that looks like your brain.”

                “Ya used that joke already.”


End file.
